The Crash
by strikingtwelve
Summary: He's crashing. Falling. Breaking apart and he needs an anchor. He needs something solid - something to focus on. Like a distraction, but permanent. Her heart is his anchor. Always has been. Maybe never quite as intimately as this, but the beat in her chest is his reason to keep trying. Because it's all for her. Always has been, always will be.


_A/N: Haven't posted in forever! Life is really starting to catch up. My other unfinished multichapters hanging over my head were also just stressing me out to the point of not wanting to write anything else, so hopefully now that I've archived those I can focus on some new things._

 _I've been working on this piece off and on since season 9 ended. Vulnerable characters basically sum up my aesthetic and this is just one of those angsty adorable, sad but beautiful ideas I've wanted to play around with for a while. The first half takes place pre-face the raven, the ending takes place post hell bent. I'll always hold onto the headcannon that the Doctor never has been, and never truly be as strong as he seems even in the weakest on-screen moments. Sometimes he just needs a good, lengthy meltdown or two to put the pieces back together._

* * *

 ** _The Crash_**

There are moments in every person's that a smile is feigned, that a needed tear is withheld from sight. Moments when one will fib a strong, _I'm okay,_ whether it be for their own sake, or the sake of another. Moments of pent up emotion that won't expel itself in the form of tears or allow itself to be healed by those who try.

And there comes a day - sometimes more than one - in everybody's life, that _life catches up._

The first two thousand years of the Doctor's life don't have a single word or phrase to identify themselves. Humans have it easy. No matter what they think , their lives are so simple and mundane. Such a far, uncomplicated reach from his own. They experience loss. Lots of it, many of them. Every human being will lose a parent, a sibling, a child, maybe even all. Every human being will feel their hearts ripped right out of their chests and experience that darkening sensation where you're convinced the world is just _coming to an end._

 _And even that doesn't compare to him._

Two thousand years versus... what? One hundred? On a good day, that is. What _human_ could possibly watch the Doctor's life unravel and think they've got it "worse" than he does?

Life is meant to be happy. Life is meant to be a good thing. Living has never in the history of the universe meant something sad.

But the Doctor's life is just one never-ending sad story.

One impossibly large sad story compiled with several smaller ones. Smaller when speaking on _scale,_ but no smaller in equivalence to every other in his two millennial lifespan. And each and every one of those times...

 _A smile is faked. A necessary tear is left unshed. "I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay." But he never is._

Even he needs a good cry sometimes, and - given the circumstances - he'll permit it to himself. A quiet, serene environment - whether that be his own TARDIS bedroom or a tranquil evening meadow where he can sob straight to the stars.

 _Control._ That's what his life is often about, and he _succeeds._ The Doctor knows how to take control, even something most can't handle the reins on.

Emotion.

In those moments, he shuts himself out. _Ensures_ complete isolation before instructing his subconscious that it's time to let a few tears fall. But what does this add up to?

Every loss the Doctor has ever experienced equals to a single stone. Small, large, no matter. _Microscopic,_ even, and over time they will still feel his hearts to the brim. One stone for every death. One stone for every goodbye. Some vary in size depending on the state of relations before another farewell takes place.

Sometimes the stones pile a bit too high and he needs to let a few roll out of his body in the form of tears. Never enough to cause a ruckus or a fuss, just enough to _ease the tension._ Take the edge off until they stack higher and higher and the routine must be repeated.

But never - not once - has the Doctor managed to fully empty both hearts of every single stone.

And on precisely two occasions, a few tears aren't enough to give him space to _breathe_.

The first time he falls apart it's to be expected. Clara calls it a meltdown - and demeaning as it is, it's a suiting term.

The Doctor feels like he's melting. Like pieces of reality and of the puzzle that make up his life are crumbling into something less than nothing. The stones have piled high. The burdens feel like not one, but multiple consecutive punches straight to his chest that won't let up. He wants to double over in pain, but for a stretch of time his body is too rigid to function. _Flashes of loss_ are what he sees.

And it doesn't stop.

Clara very... _rightfully_ panics when the Doctor goes into a fit. His tantrum begins with a firm kick in no general direction - he only cares that it lands against something firm. And it does. His wing backed chair is send sliding along the metal grating.

She's shouting at him but each word skips the part of his brain that actually processes coherency and is tucked away in his mental _saved for later_ folder. The rage continues and now the crashes of books and bookcases aren't the only loud sound in the room.

Finally, he's crying.

Crying should be considered an understatement. Even sobbing seems a bit too juvenile to be an equivalent to the blood-curdling sounds erupting from his throat. It's a scream - then tapering off to a low series of incoherent mumbles with a tone of a plea before his voice rises, higher and higher - his booted foot slams against the wall.

Now his fists are banging a repeated smack against his thighs, sides, arms - he needs to feel something... _anything_ besides the stones.

It's a slow building, almost animalistic growl then ones again fades into shaking shoulders and the cries of a broken man. He tears very clearly each tear that hits the floor - hears the differentiated sounds when it hits his boot instead, his skin, and he _focuses on that._

But it's not working.

His nails rake every bit of skin accessible. His teeth grit against one another creating the whole new problem of a nails-on-a-chalkboard-esque gritting.

 _It's not working._

He screams again and doubles over with both hands disappearing into his hair. The Doctor's fingers wind around the silvery locks then tug sharply. Once, twice, and his head is pounding with the effort. _But he doesn't stop._ Sometimes stomping in time with each tug, grunting, falling apart.

 _Two warm hands grace his fingertips and his spinning-out-of-control world finally stops long enough for him to..._

"Breathe."

It's the first word in the midst of his fury that finally sinks in before breaching the front of his brain. His hands are trembling violently and Clara just holds them tighter. He can feel her fingers rubbing his to ease the tension in his own. A moment passes and she gives his hands a gentle tug, a gentle urge away from the continuation of harming himself but they only anchor more pointedly in his hair. With the weight of his arms his head his low, tucked to his chest so his eyes are invisible.

He doesn't want to see hers, and doesn't want her to see his own.

"Doctor," There's a slight hitch to her breath, like a cry she's trying to suppress.

 _Don't._

 _Just don't._

"Breathe."

And now there's urgency and it makes him quizzical - until the Doctor becomes aware of the time passed since his last inhalation.

Some of the tightness ebbs as his lips part and his chest empties of withheld oxygen.

 _And a stone drops._

"There you go. There you go, now in-"

Even in his state he's astonished at her remarkable ability to handle the situation. She's acting as if with expertise, as if pieces are coming together and she knows exactly how to handle each in their own unique method.

The Doctor does as she says with his head still bent. With each breath his fingers slacken.

He clicks his teeth together with each second that passes, and it's close to four minutes before Clara manages to guide his hands away from the disheveled silver curls. She doesn't let go, holds tighter than ever in case he tries to make a quick attempt at resuming his actions.

But with each tick of agonizing time he's falling apart more and more. His body is weak, his closed eyes shimmering with tears beneath their lids.

Another stone figuratively drops to the metal floor.

When he clatters to the ground Clara's sure he's fainted and goes right down with him. Her hands are on his face, his head, searching for injuries until she detects the resuming stiffness in his body and she braces herself, knowing what's coming.

The Doctor's palms grind roughly against his eyes and he cries out again. His feet shuffled back and forth against the floor causing a deathly screech that only makes everything a heightened agony. Needing to move, but practically unable to stand he settles for rocking side to side from shoulder to shoulder. He bangs his head back against the floor - once, twice, then the actions is suddenly cushioned by a careful hand.

He still doesn't open his eyes but feeling her near works far better than seeing. It's a painful attempt but one he makes an effort to pursue - focusing on the sensation of Clara's fingers weaving soothingly through his hair and the spare hand rubbing his chest, pausing to take time feeling the two hearts pounding behind his ribs.

"Breathe, Doctor. Breathe." Her voice is stronger now. More confident. Even in these few minutes, she's gained experience and is beginning to gather the method of calming him down.

"Doctor, Doctor I need you to look at me." Her teacher voice. He hates it - probably because of how effective it is. Those kids must hate her.

...Outside thoughts are leaking in. Things are starting to make sense. There's more than just death filling his hearts now.

 _Another stone drops._

But he's still shaking. His hands try to reach for his hair to tug on but Clara captures them securely, this time pulling both to rest against her chest.

 _He needs something to focus on. She's understanding that now._

Clara chooses to lay next to him so that their faces are inches apart. He looks quite uncomfortable - hunched in a fetal position on his side and his shoulders rising and falling rapidly to match the still audible cries. She longs to see his eyes - to find reassurance there but they're still sealed behind screwed-shut lids.

He no longer sees her by choice, so he needs to feel her. Hear her?

Feel her. Feel her more than anything.

"I'm gonna stay right here with you til you're over this, m'kay?" Clara gives his arm a soothing rub and shifts his hands until one palm lays flat against her chest. "Concentrate. I know how your mind works, sometimes. It's a complicated mystery, that. One thing I know is that you've got _quite a lot_ going on up there and I can only imagine what all that can pile up to, _so_ what you need is a distraction. "

She unjustly expects a sort of response, verbal or not but receives only silence. She talks and talks, drifting closer each time until her lips are resting against his ear and her words are soft enough to be a lover's caress.

"Concentrate."

He's crashing. Falling. Breaking apart and he needs an _anchor._ He needs something solid - something to focus on. Like a distraction, as she said, but permanent.

So the Doctor tucks his head beneath Clara's chin and breathes out warmly onto her neck. Her hand holds him in place as he listens to the uncomfortably rapid-fire rhythm of her single human heart. It makes him frown, a distinguishable crease between his brows shows his discontent and Clara notices with a pang. "Focus." It's all she knows how to say. All she can do to help - give him something to _hold on to._

Her heart is his anchor. Always has been. Maybe never quite as intimately as this, but the beat in her chest is his reason to keep trying. Because it's all for her. _Always has been, always will be._

Slowly he's growing braver and his arms wind around her shoulders to cling tightly to the thin grey jumper. The sounds he makes are no longer screams or cries for help. He's whispering - a lowly crackling voice - words foreign to Clara's untrained ears but the message, the request for reassurance is clear.

"I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

He believes her.

The second time he falls apart even the Doctor himself thinks such a fuss has never been more justified.

Four and a half billion years of such wretched torment that he's tucked it back into the _fanficul_ folder in his mind. Filed under _bury that memory_ and _let's pretend it wasn't all for nothing._

Billions and billions and everything beyond of the same agonizing repeat. He suffered. Suffered longer and harder than any ordinary man might to save a comrade. Stuck in a loop - like the sort of horrid, vivid nightmare where you keep crying out but each word catches in your throat like someone's stuffed a gag between your lips. You keep trying to run away but your legs crumple beneath you as if weighed down by the burdens you'ved lived and _caused._

The Doctor carried the weight of hell itself on his shoulders and in two hearts that were filled to the brim _oh so_ long ago, and for ages beyond ages now the stones were pouring out like a waterfall - never time left to recover, never a moment allowed to breathe, just _go go go._ Get out. Save Clara. _Save Clara._

He saved her.

And then he lost her.

When all traces of her smile, her laugh, her eyes and her voice were yanked from the Doctor's memory it was like a collar being yanked off a dog. It was _freeing,_ yet oh so restricting. That _duty of care_ he struggled to withhold? Nonexistent. That impending concern and worry and sense of obligation? Gone. He's granted the freedom of a life deprived of the stress of protecting a loved one. No more chest constrictions at the first sight of danger, (in fear for her alone), no more cries of her name and lectures on being reckless. But now that he was granted this new sense he didn't know what to do with it. Like a dog off it's leash. Faced with the open road, infinite possibilities, and not knowing where to start.

Clara was his leash. But the sort of leash he craved.

His hold on reality. And sometimes, his reason to lived. She kept him reined in, safe in her clutches, his safe place to fall when he _crashed._

And now she's gone.

There's no justified, sensible reason, the day it all comes back. It's like when a childhood memory worms it's way back to the surface of your consciousness - triggered by the smallest thing, whether it be a texture under your fingertips or a certain smell that brings nostalgic tears to your eyes.

He's not sure what triggered it.

And part of him wishes it was never triggered in the first place.

After all this time being kept in the dark, the stones never left his hearts. The pain was always there but just out of reach. Too far away for the Doctor to latch onto - to feel - to _crash into as the stones pour out._

But now there's nothing holding him back.

Regret - _so much regret._ That's what he feels first. As many _I should have tried harder_ 's and _What if_ 's as there are stars in the sky. The raven. No heartbeat, a heartbeat again, then just -

 _Emptiness._

She's gone, but she isn't. She's walking, breathing, but not living. Stuck in what one may call blissful utoptia, but the Doctor knows far more than anyone that truly, _truly,_ immortality is hell itself.

He remembers the diner and that's when the first tears hit.

She was _RIGHT THERE._

He was so sure - so so sure that he would just _know_ when he saw her. So certain that he never bothered to peel the mental curtain back far enough to explore other possibilities. But that was her, and he was oblivious. Stupid... stupid thick, Doctor. Never a not-daft moment.

Idiot.

 _It was her._

He much would rather tear apart himself, his regrets, his mistakes - but the book case will have to do.

The path of destruction begins and the Doctor screams _._ It's not the pitched-high wail of distress nor the loud, aggravated groans of a lunatic trying to break mentally free. It's that low, trembling, faltering cry for help within his own mind. So roughly executed that his throat _burns_ but he _likes it._ He needs to feel release - needs to escape his own demon-ridden mind.

 _She was right there._

The Doctor's knuckles strike the wall.

 _She was so close_.

One more time repeated with his opposing hand, then boot-clad toes against the arm of his chair.

 _She was an arm's length away._

How long must be bear such a burden that one may deem unjustified but to the Doctor is an unforgiving boulder sitting permanently on his chest?

How long will he have to live with the regret of not only another fatal failure, but a thrown away second chance? He tells himself _this is meant to be._ And _you did it all for a reason. She's BETTER OFF._

But is _he_?

Flying down the staircase with such urgent fluidity yet so little grace, quaking hands skimming the controls and not even bothering to stabilize their fretful owner as the ship jerks it's landing to conclude that _no._

The span of sand stretched out in front lacks all hope, all chances at relief because it's missing something very very important.

The infinitely great pile of fresh stones in his chest are answer.

Is Clara Oswald better off? Perhaps.

Is the Doctor better off?

No.

He's so far in the opposite direction there might as well be no going back. He steps back inside with heavy breaths. He'll wail on a few more walls, kick a couple chairs over, probably delve back into his little state of " _uncaring_ " _,_ perched on a cloud, in his box, to sit and sulk until he rots.

But until he finds a proper cloud -

The Doctor has to cry.

The next wave of tears are approaching, red rimming his aching eyes, hair sticking in every direction they possible can. He doesn't care to notice that at some point in his fit the red coat that for Clara's sake alone he attempted to sport again is now a careless pile of velvet tucked in a corner. His entire being disheveled - broken - quaking with rage. He sniffs once, twice, tells himself to stop being a child but that's all he knows now. The Doctor feels like a lost little boy aching for his mother, feeling like the world is collapsing with himself as a target and the only way to repair it is to see her face just _once more time._

"God you know how to sulk, don't you?"

The fist beating aimlessly against his jaw steadies to a halt.

The voice comes drifting from roughly a dozen paces behind his back. He even budge a muscle, let alone turn around - far too afraid that the sound is merely a desperate hallucination granted by his expiring mind.

Again.

"Probably should've thought to have a proper sit down and give you the _five-minutes-a-day-of-grieving_ talk but I figured you were sensible enough not to need it. God, you're such an idiot."

His feet don't move but the bruised and bloodied hand previously limp with exhaustion at his side now presses against the edge of the console. Steadying himself both physically and mentally.

"Come on, snap out of it. Can't have my designated driver fallin' apart at the wheel."

He shifts. Just an inch, knowing that if he turns around to the sight of nothing then he might, possibly, maybe, have found something too unbearable to carry on living with.

It takes a good forty seconds for the Doctor to turn around, one jerky hand still holding his body upright against the console. A sharp, albeit shallow intake of breath, bottom lip trembling, and two morally confused tears later he speaks.

"Clara."

She's smiling so brightly it could be the moon to a starless night. While his chest trembles with stifled sobs hers jerks with shallow laughter that drops at least a handful of stones. Maybe two.

"Doctor."

While the moment seems fit for a cinematic leap into each other's arms the Doctor stays frozen in place. His legs are heavy and don't permit the slightest movement but Clara makes up for it. Slowly, one palm upturned and extended, she approaches as one would an underfed puppy on the side of the street that may or may not unexpectedly lash out if the wrong move is made. By the time they're in arms length she hasn't broken eye contact, but nor has the Doctor accepted her offered hand. He just stares into the tear-shimmering pools of brown that he knows will tell him whether or not this is a dream.

They're just as big, expressive, and beautiful as he remembers. To real to be a dream.

When moments go by Clara settles for lowering her hand to blindly, cautiously fumble for his. It takes a few tries as her eyes are preoccupied, but all it takes is the gentlest brush of cold fingers against his own for the Doctor to latch on for dear life. Clara laughs and returns the firm hand hold with astonishing strength that makes him feel warm and secure.

The longer he looks into her eyes the heavier the flow of burdens leaving his hearts.

"Say something." Growing braver Clara's opposing hand brushes his cheek, fingers strumming affectionately along his jaw as his former regeneration did to herself then sweeps through his hair. It must look amusing to the outside eye - such a height difference requiring Clara to stand on her tiptoes to grant the comfort she aims for.

Just as his feet feel glued to the floor his jaw feels glued shut. For the first time his gaze breaks away to search in a surprisingly calm, yet subtly fretful manor for her wrist. If Clara had a heartbeat it would be pounding with the fear of what she would find in his eyes when his search is complete.

The tremble in his hands is undisguisable. The Doctor can hardly hold her hand still enough for his fingers to successfully touch the underside of her wrist. A tiny, barely existent spark of hope burns out when the pulse he unjustly thought might have returned isn't there at all.

"Hey." Clara pries her hand away to cup his face reassuringly. "It's okay."

He's still assessing every inch of the situation, surprising himself in the fact that he didn't take note of her attire sooner.

Finally, he speaks. "You're dressed like-"

Clara shakes her head firmly. "I've not worn this outfit in dec- ages. Wanted to see if I could still pull it off. Looks good, eh?" Her smile is so beautifully faked that even he doesn't see through it. Fully trusting that Clara merely wanted a change of clothes, a bit too easily accepting that she's not heading back to face the raven. She even makes a show of stepping back far enough to give a little twirl, holding the bottom of the grey top out at her sides and feigning what spinning in a gown might look like. Hardly halfway through her first turn the Doctor expectedly seizes her hands again, tugging roughly enough for Clara to yelp in surprise until his arms wind tightly around her shoulders.

And now they're crashing together.

Seconds later the duo are a tear-stained heap on the floor, clinging to each other to make up for lost hugs, lost handholds, words that were never said but don't need to be. The Doctor's eyes always speak louder than his words and of course, being the adaptive rebel she is, Clara's do the same.

Assuming he's got to be wondering, with a granted break between fits of tears Clara explains to the Doctor of how she's been watching him since the day they parted, his TARDIS and her own linked in a way that granted her both visual and audible access to his activities when he lingered inside. She laughs and joke's about the invasion of privacy that she in no way regrets, but the Doctor, for _once_ , doesn't care about the rules.

He doesn't ask why now, why of _all times,_ why now, because maybe he doesn't want to know the answer. He must seem quite extraordinarily _messed up_ for Clara to break their agreement but maybe it's okay that he is. Because it's beyond okay that _she did_.

Clara's breath hitches sympathetically when his head dips down, hands gripping her forearms as he desperately listens for the heartbeat he know he won't find. For a moment a few stones are added.

Then Clara throws her arms around his waist and most fall out again. "I'm sorry. I know. I'm so so sorry."

They resume their previous state, crying, apologizing, he thanks her for coming, she thanks him for being stupid enough not to break the ships' link. It feels perfectly normal and justified when their lips meet and result in a whole new puddle of tears. They're swept up in mutual embrace, trying to put pieces back together that for an instant seem too shattered to be reparable.

They're crashing, but they're crashing together this time.

* * *

 _Just crash, fall down,_

 _I'll wrap my arms around you now._

 _Just crash, it's our time now,_

 _to make this work a second time around._

\- The Crash, You Me at Six

* * *

 _A/N: Reviews would be lovely!_


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